Long may they reign
by Whispurrs
Summary: These princesses flee from the light as much as the ones you are most familiar with flock to it; savoring the defeats of the innocence they crush with their darkened and depraved reality ... these are the princesses you have never before seen, and long, long may they reign.
1. Jasmine

**Long may they reign...**

**Were the Jasmine a flower of decay.**

**I am currently working on hellfire lounge; which is going to be a big project, but I decided to keep me going on slower days and as an extra thingy for my ideas and creativity, what semblance of either I have, I decided to do this. You can let me know if I should add Non/Disney animated heroines as well.**

**This initial one, however, is somewhat based on this: watch?v=6G3jaIPfMno&feature=channel_video_title, which I loved.**

She had strayed so very far from the usual path prior to her glory; she smiled, lying quite idly as her little rat begged, outliving his value; that he was sweet, that he was kind, and that he was, above all else, entertaining to her.

The notion she had fed him before was laughable, and he was blind not to see it; a princess joining with a street rat would cause her only a headache; a chaos of the sort which would never feel as fulfilling as if she mapped her own demise alone, without an insipid, awe struck voice chattering to her in its midst.

He was a beautiful toy, though.

It was such a solemn shame he would not be kept pristine, but she could play with him anyway, until either of them tired….

Still; as brilliant as he was for passing the time, she had other plans for her life; involving the Grand vizier, no less.

Joining her country to another would be more than quite the hassle; after all, certain things would be expected of the new monarch, and nothing would be expected of his new wife, no doubt ''a symbol of the beauty of the lands united'' or ''the vision for an Arabian wife.''

However agreeable they were or were not, there was a reasonably high chance that they would be missed, which made Jafar the perfect man for the job; someone with a high ego, a libido that could easily be tapped into, desire for wealth, fame; power…

The only problem with the arrangement that she could foresee was her father's apprehension, and even then as she pleaded she knew he would succumb.

In many and varied ways, each with their own merits, they all did, in the end.

''But father,'' she chose her words, careful to control herself, reminding herself that the outbursts of passion she was sometimes prone to only had her in a sulk and her father in a bad mood for a day at most, but a day on borrowed time.

''I cannot marry Prince Achmed; he does not care about the state of poverty amongst my people, why will you not give heed to my request; Jafar is perfectly worthy and knows far more about us than any nobles I can mention.'' She tries to tug at him, like she did as a child when tears threatened to flow if a certain object would not be given, or thing discarded.

His eyes shone with pride for a moment, happy that his daughter was thinking of her people and not how to best irk the surrounding nobility, and leave a bad, though wholly unforgettable impression of Agrabah and its monarchy.

''Darling, I didn't know much about your mother, but I know she would be proud of you if she could see you today,'' he started, trailing off the original subject and irritating her greatly.

Of course he didn't know about her mother; he was a Sultan with a harem; to know a full name would be completely unexpected, and an honour only dreamed of it they could bare him a child.

Of course, her mother had the honour of being chosen as Sultana, but that title was short lived, and she had no true power in her small months before her death, if she had lived at all.

She had read the books that were scribed by scandalous pens, hidden away where they would rot, never to paint their words over impressionable minds; she had not merely skipped, but pored over them, over the heresies of the family and her people, the trials, the wars, and even the hushed joys of the opposition.

_Opposition._

What once seemed a big, scary, mean old word became a new opportunity; she had already, she learnt, lived a life of great and irredeemable sin by association with her father; who had less regard for tradition and religion than she; and the rest of her bloodline, whom were on the whole far less innocent than him in his bumbling benevolence.

Resigned to the facts as they were, she decided that if she were to be such a blight upon the Earth, she would try not to patronise others with unnecessary pretence; although, sadly enough for her, pretence was more often needed than not.

''I know quite enough of my mother, father.'' she said, her voice soft but with an acrid lilt underneath the silken tones.

She knew how she, the new and blessed princess, almost killed her mother; reducing her to a shell, she knew the rumours of her mother's descent into a hushed sort of madness, more so like despair than insanity; and how she passed away as the new, and glorious princess Jasmine blossomed into the world.

''But now we speak of my marriage; we have already been through who I cannot marry, why is it that my first choice cannot be the one that I marry; he is no beggar or thief on the streets, like an ignorant child would choose, he is perfectly worthy; is he not,'' she noted, the anger rising in her voice, trying to keep as much of a hold on it as she could.

She knew her father was harmless, and she owed her life to him; as ignorant as he was, and she could never bring herself to kill family, no, not even subject him to the grief his little girl's real world would cause him.

She would make sure he was well provided for in another land where he would be as blissfully unaware as Jafar's staff would allow.

''I will marry Jafar, father, for the needs of Agrabah; whatever you wish to do with our nation I want to secure it.'' She stormed off, knowing later she would regret some of her last moments with her dear papa, which should have been chronicled as loving being full of ignorant rage; consumed, however as she was in the heat of the moment.

The heat of the moment was where she found Aladdin.

He had been caught trying to steal his way to a meal; a common, uneventful thing; but one that nonetheless she demanded to see, wishing to lap up the pain the criminal would feel.

He was no ordinary weather beaten criminal, no face upon which a smile would loo heinous, no scars to speak of, at least on his face; though a few were to be noted on his feet, welts which looked as if they were to ooze until the dusk of time.

He looked quite handsome, altogether, with his soft hair and wide eyes, and so she would spare him, ready for when the favour would grant her a new opportunity, as she knew it would.

In her first meeting, with his true being; she talked idly of things she never even thought about, resisting the urge to giggle like a girl in his face for his naivety; wondering how he could maintain something so flimsy in the street life he had led.

When the last of her fathers rushed attempts, Prince Ali came, with similar features, and a voice that was, though stronger than his weak mumbles, that of her thief; clothes could not cover a person's central image unless she chose to be blind.

She still played along, thinking it would advance her in some way later on, even if she would have to balance this new man with her old flame; the one that would be far harder, and more enchanting both to fuck and kill.

Ali, as he now dubbed himself, seemed enamoured with her; showing her new possibilities in new countries as they sat on an enchanted carpet; over cities of great reputation, strength, beauty and force.

So unlike her own, she lamented; a country weakening each day, poison through the veins of its once bustling markets, fleas with not even half Aladdin's worth crawling the streets, each once proud corner filled with vermin she would prefer to personally eradicate.

If needs be, she would eradicate with Jafar, as he would adore the carnage, and then eradicate Jafar himself.

She could imagine him then and there; how they had purged the streets by setting them ablaze; punished the deplorable of court and looked upon the chaos with ever growing wonder, she could envisage herself plunging a dagger into his heart, him screaming at her wretchedness while stifling his desires for her.

It was as his smile grew wider, and yet somehow and why shyer that she realised how to play the game he had created to her own advantage.

Gingerly, she leaned closer to him, tightly and full of warmth emanating from them both; where she had a pang of regret that Jafar wouldn't be the one waiting for her.

''Ah, '' she cooed, sounding in awe of such a embellished trinket, ''I must say you are the best yet, Ali…or, should I call you Aladdin – no worry, street prince, I like him well enough too; why don't I test your intimacies before we are wed, sweet thing?'' she asked, trying to use her seduction to manipulate, knowing she had already cemented an image into Aladdin's mind he would not wish to be free of.

''No,'' he replied innocently, ''I wouldn't want you to be in trouble, I can't do that, Jas…''

Jas, she sneered; she knew he was idealistic, she thought she could suffer fools but Jas?

Alas, as ravishing as he had been to play with when he was a mere rat; to lead on down many winding paths all leading to an alleyway with a proceeding reputation, he was far too damn good for her, and even if she did carry out her titillating plan; she would never wash the sugar from her skin.

She walked over and stroked a finger down his chest, every sway of her hips heightened so she just knew he would be turned inside out by the suggestion her body.

''Oh but Al,'' she begged nasally, every inch the daughter of a wealthy man, longing for a precious item, ''if you cannot do as I wish, you would make such a poor sultan, I am afraid I must ask something else of you then. Go jump off a balcony – by order of the princess.''

She stopped the charade, finding it a useless act being as he would be too damned dead to remember it, and pushed him from the balcony, the melody of his screams for retribution soothing and luxuriant to her ears.

Hearing this, Jafar stepped over, wishing it was the suitor that had interested her, so that he could go along with their plans perfectly.

''Oh, don't worry,'' she quipped, ''Yes; our future kingdom is secure, and yes, you can bed me after our wedding. I don't know why, but that wasn't half as satisfying as I thought it would be.'' She pouted; longing for some feeling over the matter; some eternal horror at what she had done , guilt even being better than nothing; a complete lack of satisfaction or reason for disappointment alike irking her.

She saw ideas of hideous torture dance like the palace harem in his eyes; crimson devastation reflecting that entire she could pretend she loved about him before she noticed how the screams had stopped; and she frowned, missing the sound of his voice being put through blissful agony.

''How did it feel to take a life my queen, surely there must have been some glory in it for you?'' he addressed her, knowing she hated being called Princess, and deciding he would rather be on her good side.

He remembered the feeling of the first time he took life from another, how the pleas for mercy rang in his ears, the chorus of the Gods, heralding the sacrifice the most worthy of all mortal men brought to them.

The owner of it gave stronger magic to his hands than any spell ever could, the sense he would do anything to the weak and fragile thing before him filling him to the brim with endless, tantalising possibilities, each rich, deep and with their own charm.

Being more rash then he had merely thrust the knife into his back, smiling as he saw life drain from his eyes and heard each cry grow smaller and yet each time more full of despair, until his very last.

What Jafar could not remember was the man's crime, or even the man's name, but those things were both little more than trivial, the corpse being everything he needed, as he smiled at the torn flesh, soon to rot.

He rather pitied, in a very quiet way, Jasmine; if her first murder had not been such a thrill, but he knew if she was to be a wife of his in any capacity it would grow on her like a fungus she could not rid of, till she had a whole long list of souls removed from bodies under her belt.

''None.'' She sighed, feeling a lost child with the thing she had both anticipated with fear and wished for proving nothing to her.

Perhaps, she reasoned it was the lack of blood physically staining her fingers or clothes, in fact there was no evidence that it had been anything more than a figment of a warped imagination.

''It will come.'' Jafar reassured her, placing his hands around her lithe body, silently anticipating all Aladdin had avoided.

''Fine,'' she submitted, knowing perfectly well his implications, ''what should I care of honour now in any case, why should I ever have cared?'' she laughed cynically, starting as a mere chuckle before it was louder than any procession for any of her birthdays.

Jafar's eyes grew wider; he had not only the power to do whatever he wanted with the scum of his earth, and all the wealth he could possibly use; but he had the princesses body of her own accord, ah, he smiled, if would not find the last glorious thing of his immortality, he would be able to die content, even in the knowledge he was going to burn in every wicked fire Satan could devise.

She knew the same.

It was just a mere fact of afterlife; as the two viewed it.

She decided she would start to strip then and there, to throw her audacity in the open; revolutionaries were always villainized, and were never wholly sane, and that was what her people would get, so she was being gracious to show them, all of them who had eyes to see and minds to care.

She peeled her bra off, revealing more than she ever had before, knowing she would have all the power as Jafar was left weak and trembling for her; and she would gladly take any power she had, so she was left smiling at the whole affair.

He could privately think her the world's most detestable harlot for all she cared, but she held a spell over him she would keep a firm grip on.

…

His body was entirely numb, he was glad to say, so very glad indeed; but his mind had not been lost, nor his eras, and whilst he could not see them, he could hear perfectly well all that he would never wish to hear even as a demon wreck of his former self.

Subject to their moans he felt he deserved the punishment for ever falling for such a despicable devil, for he would never again think of her as a woman.

The image of a kind, justice loving woman who would fight for the oppressed was torn to shreds by the evidence of his broken bones, and how he was slipping, hopefully away from his waking hell.

No genie could save him, however powerful, from the fact she had tried to kill him; and he loved someone capable of murder, he deserved to die, and would never call upon the lamp's help.

He would, somehow have retribution, at whatever cost, and slipping away, he grinned at the thought; his smile a jagged scar, the icon of the madness she had thrust him into; a horrendous fireball of self-loathing, snuffed, as was his life in pitiful seconds.

….

It was within days she managed to arrange the wedding, a predictably lavish affair as she already felt exhausted for Jafar's forthcoming demands, evils sadly necessary to fulfil in the long run, after which she would gladly castrate him

She could not care less for the gifts bestowed upon her, all pretty foolish things any commoner could live off of, but she decided to keep them in case she need to sweet talk anyone problematic she couldn't, for whatever reason erase entirely.

The rulers knew neither loved the other, love would have corrupted everything, they ruled the land with an iron fist, turning glories into ashes, hiding love of bloodshed under causes which grew less and less elaborate as time wore onwards.

It was one woman who set the spark for a war against her rulers, Sadira Haze, a former friend of Aladdin who swore to all her zealous followers that he spoke to her each night, telling her how the rulers kept so many quiet, and how she could sneak past their magic.

Evade them she did, in all but name; and after nearly a decade, wherein a whole population was depleted, and all palaces of might were burned to the ground or hives of criminal activities of the worst kind for her to strike hardest, somehow obtaining magic, allegedly from a sorcerer named Mozenrath that would reverse all enchantments put on guards once loyal to the original sultan's ideals; attacking the both of them in their sleep, just after they planned to conceive n heir, finally at a moment in time when they had enough moments spare to plan for one.

Some said they could still hear the heretic princess's final words ring through the first day of freedom.

_''A whole new world will dawn in fire…a wondrous place…''_


	2. Cinderella

**A dream will never be…**

**She sang.**

Through all the hits, and hurt and heartache, she sang; knowing that, above all else is what unnerves them, more than any physcotic twitch of the eye ever could, more than any quiet mutilation of dolls in their image that give way to troubled whispers from her sister's tongues.

Of the two, Drizella was the most vicious, commanding and complaining, while Anastasia carried some reluctance, though usually as an afterthought when she joined in, and, unlike the others, once, as a very small child, not yet wise to the ways of her world had apologised profusely for her manners, quite taking her step-sister aback.

Still; she could have used her mercy, she choose not too; and thus, she would pay.

Another sweet nothing effortlessly flowed from her lips, a simple tune; light and airy; the world adding no weight to such an angelic thing, making her younger sister smile, standing out from the two scowls either side of her.

She scrubbed the floor as she had been ordered, doing so meekly and without question, finding a much better rebellion than the obvious one.

Her step-mother, the once upon a time infamous Madame Tremaine; who was said to have weakened her dear papa's mind for the sole purpose of becoming his wife, would be the antithesis of her usual, respectable, commanding self as welts and cuts appeared on her delicate hands, used only to wave orders at others before then.

She would gasp; startled at the tremendous horror of it all, countenance as grim as that of any ghost recorded in vivid Victorian lore as the realisation stung, faster and more cutting than the tail of the finest of all murderous scorpions.

Her veins would well up with poison as her hands turned chapped and raw, skin aching with every touch, every brush against even velvet as her face contorted in sheer, undismissible agony, that even the most sly and practised smile could not disguise.

When friends of hers inquired as to why such a noble woman would not appear, they would gasp; perhaps even faint at their dispositions being weakened by such a hideous hag, without even money to make her easier upon the eyes.

She would beg at their feet for their approval, clawing at her fineries half crazed; an animal on hunt for velvet and trinkets, as opposed to blood.

Witnessing the spectacle, they'd deem her mind unstable, and, were she to become violent; were the snarls to turn into lashes at legs and spitting; she would get the same treatment as any animal.

A nice, clean shot, from a nice skilled wheel lock.

Still, even as this scene played in her thoughts, she sang of love; lyrics were far scarcer when it came to songs about wreaking quiet vengeance upon ones primary source of discomfort; as Cinderella had oft found with disdain while searching for a less merry little tune that would encompass every mirth for her, and her friends.

How on Earth could she forget her friends, dear things they were?

One, Mary, was an upholder of virtues, and ideals; ever the voice of reason and always somehow dressed in humble fineries; however contradictory that idea would, at first glance appear to be.

At least, this was Mary's state of being until Lucifer made rather a marvellous meal of her; miniscule organs staining the porcelain (well, the rest of her family certainly didn't waste their money, she noted, upon realising just what it was made of) of his bowl of food; leaving her to scrub, scrub away all trace of the righteous little woman she had held so very dearly beloved.

She had a wealth of others, so many she lost track of their names; and others, well, others were simply too reckless in their behaviour to be treated with classification, and she'd give them a squeeze to keep them in check, and with politeness upheld.

So often did she find those pesky ones too dreadfully unresponsive after she disciplined them, for their own good; of course, no sound coming from their mouths of martyrdom, shut off to the world because of a trifling quibble with how she made the rules.

It was fairer than any other rules, she told them; plainly, speaking as neutrally as she could, still, however shooting some glares at those who were more frequently guilty than others; she had never once led them to Lucifer; Lucifer was merely there to catch the fallen, and preform sacrifice of those with such virtue as could not exist in a mortal world.

She was well versed in Moral law; that of God's unchallenged word or at least she hoped so; her stepmother had taken even the right to read that off her when she was young.

This knowledge came from her most kind and wonderfully sweet, uncle, Frollo; who'd bitterly recount tales of his sister, Clemence (such an ill-fitting name for her of all the wretched people) and would give her far more food than she'd find in her own home, adding some flesh to her visible bones; and soothing her to bed, as long as she would uphold the ways of the lord, and mock the hunched child he housed, reminding such a dreadful beast of a young man of his true form; and if she did well, which he always said she did, he would even hold her tight and stroke his fingers through her hair, until he was called away to exterminate the plague of Romani vice.

It was over nearly as soon as he began; hushed voices saying things she could not understand, uttering words it was obvious he did not want to hear; and, furious, her step mother entered, dragged the child to her prior home, and tore her precious bible, muttering damning words to her brother, Claude; before smacking her over the head for good measure.

She decided, not long after the amount of silent, limp friends of hers was increasing, she would have to put aside the game of God for another day.

Regretfully, she decided that for some, all hope was lost; as even Lucifer would not approach them, and if they could not muster the will to be hygienic surely they were not at all sound in mind.

It was as she solemnly tossed the limp, damp, and, to anyone other than herself rather putrid friends into the garden, that Gus Gus appeared, a chubby, humorous little thing, who she'd adore.

She laughed and laughed at his antics, till all she could do was sing as she scrubbed away whatever dirt she had to erase; and, as ever, beings as she HAD to do it, she would clean diligently.

Spotless she told herself, smiling; then feeling generous and allowing herself another fantasy.

Drizella; her worst sister, who revelled in snide comments and an attitude that reeked more than London, 1858 would, long after she was dead and laid to final rest.

Despite her looks being rather lacklustre, to put them mild and kindly; the stench of money clung to her like cologne, every gentleman that found beauty an easy thing to compromise doing all he could to get closer to it, then deciding their time spent on conquest would be better spent on others, leaving only names, chocolates and the insincerity of faded compliments behind them; little tatty things she delighted in and nearly cackled at.

This of course earnt her a reputation as rather a harlot, but lips were sewn shut; each gossip swiftly remembering money was power, and a word out of line could earn much more than fleas in your bed or maggots in your bread, and that quiet tongues never were sliced clean from throats.

Still, it was an essential part of her being, the addiction to her admirers, who in any other case would pity her; though, much to her relief, even if she did cite it as dismiss they usually fled long before implications of any nature.

Cinderella was the only one in the household of a conventional sort of prettiness; hair short and strawberry blonde, face plainly elegant; a body which could on occasion make rags look like garments designed by artistic Parisian hands, all in the way they were worn.

Her hands, however, were not soft, nor delicate to the touch, rough and sore from work, but steady, and while not powerful, strong.

Her smile was the most controversial of all her features; some people who the higher, talked about members of the Tremaine family deemed silly enough not to be bothered by would note how red and alluring it was, yet how fragile it could be; while others reported it was a beam made out of madness, her eyes broken and vowing to break all else at once whenever the smile came to her face.

What way, Cinderella asked herself, absentmindedly could she die, which manner would be the height of irony and humour, and could in its audacity squeeze no pity for its victim in even the most empathetic, apologist of hearts.

Gus Gus was of little help to her, being a noise and a nuisance at best, as he was prone to be.

Fine, she thought; rather deflated by how he irritated her; she was more than adequately capable of imagining things without someone to guide her, even if she was never allowed schooling over basics that would allow her to write those flickering images down.

The fate to befall Drizella was that the crows that were contestant overlooks upon events around their garden were to be involved, and rather malicious; eyeing her as far more than the boys she so loved to count and hide ever did.

They would go to her; caw out sonnets to her beauty (a birds perception is never that of reality; an ambiguous optimism is prevalent in nearly all of them, heaven knows why), and in their outrage that she would show her coarse side, so prevalent to the eyes of others to them, gallant, fine gentlemen commenting on her loveliness and how dearly they would wish to possess her hand; they would mirror her ferocity as she batted them away.

They would scream each insult that they could at such an ungrateful wench they once thoughts worthy of any dowry; casting away their gentlemanly pretence, instead attacking her from all corners of the air, pecking at her feet, entangled in her hair.

When once upon another time they would have kissed her lids gently as she awoke, a paragon of beauty for all fairy tales to follow instead pecked at them, gouging them out, adoring the taste of the pretty little things; succulent, with a bittersweet aftertaste; not the offal plucked from slaughtered cows.

The bleeding from where they used to reside would be hideous; scarlet trickling every which way; staining her face from cheeks to lips; nearly as much as the contortion of a scream.

The sound of pure, unadulterated hell coming from her mouth would echo from not only home to home, in the chic part of France where there would be no peasants to spoil the mood, apart from the servants, whom their master's deemed sadly necessary; and where no radical artists or homeless tramps could roam.

The tainting of class by chaos would be a delight to watch, were it in any way more than fiction.

Still humming; as ever Cinderella thought about how she could turn those visions of hers, pretty as they were and unattainable as she thought they would always be.

To turn her step-mother to madness would be relatively easy, if she knew how to go about it; a little rat poison in the tea could easily do, if it didn't kill her; and her work was really so very little regulated, however much her step mother would think it was the opposite….

The unhinging of the balance of power would be harder; she was by no means a weak woman, if she had to be referred to in any vaguely pleasant way; and she was near perfectly certain that even in the throes of madness given to her by Satan himself she would still make her crawl to some damnable work.

Drizella's case seemed more fantastical.

_Seemed _beingthe key word.

She regarded herself as quite the friends of animals, and perhaps, she smiled, she could even rouse doves from their slumber with a melodious tune, why not then, those crows who would so eagerly court her step sister's eyes?

At any rate, she had far more chance of that than ever being shown in the society Mrs Tremaine deemed polite; an age ago she thoughts she'd be made a mockery of by the masses, but such a highly respected woman would not take any risks when it came to her station.

When a more astute, inquiring sort of person remembered the matter of her late husband's own daughter; with a sigh she told them of the dreadful fevers that plagued the poor child, and would tell them she so often begged to see them, despite her ailment, tugging at her heartstrings mercilessly as she did so.

This satisfied most of them, and those with suspicions kept those sneaky little things to themselves before they could question any ulterior motives.

Well, Cinderella told herself, it would be a frightful bore having to mix with such arrogance as those upstanding patrons of virtue; with all their talk that may as well have been, to a poor girl with but three sets of clothes too her name spoken in the language of ancient Peru.

Besides, dresses, however gorgeously made were no substitutes for sound minds, which, if their lack of reluctance to join with her step mother was any indication they did none of them possess.

''Cinderella,'' the voice of the house's haggard, malevolent hand called out, ''do remember your laundry duties.'' She said, threats hidden in plain sight under her proud, noble voice.

''Certainly, mother.'' she replied, knowing that to be called mother by her was her pet hate, but one which she seldom, unlike all others acted upon.

''Thank you, dear; but I'm sure that your mother would object to you calling me that, bless her late soul; oh, and, don't forget to remind Anastasia that the act of bakery is for servants, and not proper ladies; and if she wishes to perform the act she is more than welcome to do just that _as_ a servant.''

She called out anther yes; grinning from ear to ear when she heard that Anastasia was being scolded, and that she could be sent to live in her quarters, where she could turn the tables and make the red head's life a misery.

Sadly, this new revelation did not a creative story make.

She thought she could be baked into a precious pie, if she yearned to cook that much; and be eaten by the best of palates; served in the very finest of establishments, from Paris to Fleet Street of London town.

This slim little fantasy, with hardly any details, gruesome, grim or grandiose disappointed her very badly, and she pouted, subsequently.

She picked up a bit; remembering she was probably doing a good thing, knowing, even if it wasn't named thinking about mauling family members was a sin; and while, since she was expected to be a sinner she had after her visit to Claude seen no real reason to treat the good book as her moral code, she felt proud of herself, till she realised even if it was an inadequate fantasy of having a sibling violently die; it was still a fantasy of having a sibling violently die, and thus a very large sin.

She felt very sore at this revelation, but instead resigned herself to think about different things, which could not be too hard, surely; after all, she could not recall if there ever even was a time she had heard about a murder, and her life could still hold some excitement, on occasion.

Instead, she decided she'd conjure a little girlish tale; after all, her mind could craft whatever it deemed appropriate, and no one else could see it, or berate her for her childishness.

How to start?

She had often wanted to make a simple little tale as a girl; one with heroine, and prince, a villain and a kiss; and a happy ever after, but she always turned, just around the corner from the villain, into a land where bad things happened to her princesses.

The best thing resembling a fairy tale she had thought of at a pretty little age was that of the Princess Arianna, who was dragged through hell, where the devil was to take her as a bride, until somehow her prince came.

Her prince, however, was scorched and scarred by the fires of Hades, and the princess nursed him back to health, vowing to take her vengeance even on the greatest figure of evil; and so, after her prince was taken away by some little illness, she killed herself, to meet with God; who not only forgave her sin, but restored her prince's beauty, and, for a month let satan's pitiful tortured have their vengeance on him, with his own tools.

She had never told a single soul about that story, never mind how proud she was of it, not even little Gus Gus.

No, she sighed, that would not do.

Instead, she stuck closer to the more demure tales, but did not create a heroine, but instead, in a fit of egotism placed herself as the heroine.

She was to meet with her fairy godmother; an onlooker over all her suffering, who would give her the chance not only to go to the most glorious ball, but to woo the grand and handsome prince far more aptly than her step sisters could even dream.

Alas, she would have to be back in her ghastly house before midnight, lest the illusion shatter and he would spit in the face of the poor peasant girl she truly was, and his image be tainted by the hate he would display to her, and rightly so.

She would, fleeing from time that tried to catch up with her, hot on her heels, leave the glass slipper provided by her fairy friend, and the prince would hunt for the girl with that very slipper, until she was found, and married; and her ghastly family got their dues.

Eurgh.

She shook her head; that was a very bland little tale, all things considered, and with far too many plot holes than were justifiable; she would have to go back to gruesome tales, and they could not be altogether too damning, if no one knew of them.

She was far more happy thinking of the wounds she was to inflict upon her family, and as she picked up the small knife, ready to move away from kitchen cleaning and onto the laundry her step mother assigned her; she knew then was the best time of all to start; as she pulled it out of its drawer, and enclosed it firmly in her hand.

She could get very creative, even in the absence of crows, she smiled.

**Author's Note**

**I can't decide whether I like or loathe this one, to be honest; but a thank you to Hyenastho for the review, though I must say that it's rather ironic that you like my story, seeing's as I am the very writer your brilliant parody pokes fun of; being a teenage girl and all, but perhaps time is no true measure of a mind or soul; and anyway, I bloody loathe mary sue stories, too much experience of accidentally writing them…**

**I carried on the sequel's version of Anastasia, because despite sequels usually being fluffy blandness I did like that part of the Cinderella ones at least; also, there have been rather a few stories with Lady Tremaine and Frollo as brother and sister, so I can't claim ownership of that Idea; and a wheelpistol is an 1800's gun- I've tried blending the time period, with a few liberties. **


End file.
